Sunday, March 16, 2014

Leilah Fariha Abdikarim Mohammed disembarked
the UAE Airliner at Moi International Airport, Mombasa straight from Kismayo
and breathed in the smell of the ocean. Ever since Somalia stabilized thirty
years ago travelling had become much easier. Flights were no longer being
diverted to Wajir International Airport for clearance.

It
had been one hell of a journey. A near soul annihilating delay at Kismayo
International Airport had gotten the better of her, but thank goodness she had
now reached her destination.

Despite
the coastal weather, she was in a burqa, her eyes scanning the
international arrivals behind the slit opening of the pall black dress. It was
much easier to dress this way in Kenya without raising suspicion than in the
ever-so-paranoid America.

However,
she had been warned that all airports in Kenya swarmed with armed security
guards, customs, anti-terror police, security agents and a whole horde of
behavioural detection officers ever since spates of terror attacks hit the
country thirty years before.

Hyperventilating
could get you picked for questioning. So was rapid eye movement. Or sweaty
palms. But she knew that MIA was the easiest to slip through.

Everything
was going like a dream – passport control, luggage screening – albeit in a
crawl. Then, she was out. She had made it.

Leilah
took the way to her next destination imprinted on her mind. Photographic
memory. That’s why The Council liked her, and picked her always. She never
needed a map, or notes.

Through
grimy streets and dark alleys she had used only once, and at night, almost
thirty years ago, she wove her way through makuti thatched houses and
coconut plantations until she saw the ghoulish silhouette of the mosque. The
slain Sheikh who was her mentor and teacher had given her a copy of the key to
the secret door. Just in case, he had said.

The
Masjid Musa Mosque was closed by the Kenya government in 2014 after series of
Islamic extremism instigated violence hit the country. Muslims were just
fighting for their freedom, demonstrating against government killings targeting
them. The government spewed radicalization propaganda.

The
mosque was always being watched, but what the security devils did not know was
that there was a secret access to it.

Leilah
went round the darkened mosque and found the well concealed entrance. She
fumbled for the key in her purse, extracted it and inserted it into the
keyhole. When she turned it nothing happened. But she expected it. Her identity
was being verified electronically by a super-fast computer in the basement.

After
what seemed like eternity, about twelve-and-half nanoseconds later, a voice
asked her to say in whose arms Prophet Mohammed died in.

Leilah
smiled as she mouthed the secret code that The Council had given her to gain
access to join her brothers and sisters.

Leilah
entered the darkened mosque and was received by a portly woman in her prime.

Leilah
could hear Qiyaam al-Layl prayer coming through the walls. The woman
stopped at a tall carved door and let her inside. She didn’t follow.

Auntie
Sherafiyah hadn’t changed a bit since she last saw her. If anything she had
become glued to the wheelchair.

“Mama,”
Leilah said as she rushed to where Auntie Sherafiyah was anchored.

“Samantha!”
Auntie Sherafiyah said.

“I’ve
missed you so.”

Leilah
hugged her mother amid tears. “I’m sorry I didn’t call…”

Auntie
Sherafiyah waved her off. “You were right not to call,” she said. “This place is crawling with the infidel
devils thirsting for our blood. They listen to everything. Now you are home.
Sit, don’t be sorry.”

She
was, but Leilah listened to her mother whom everybody called Auntie Sherafiyah.

“I
came without any incidence,” Leilah told her mother. “Thanks to you, mama.”

“Now
you are home, Samantha. Get rid of that burqa and let me see my lovely
daughter.”

Leilah
did as she was told. She tore off the stuffy dressing and stood before her
mother in her European clothes, clothes from home. Her mother looked at her and
grinned.

There
stood the girl who, at five years old, said without faltering that she would be
Mujahedeen when she grew up.